


Who Was In The Car?

by April_Valentine



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: "Terra Incognita, Angst, Episode Tag, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 01:22:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3749719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/pseuds/April_Valentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Episode tag to Terra Incognita, which I got to see Monday night, April 13, at Paleyfest. What happened after the car arrived. </p><p>This is un-betaed and hastily written. Probably the most hastily written and posted fic ever for me. I was inspired. I will probably notice and fix errors in the next few days. Feel free to point any out in the comments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Was In The Car?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Plink42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plink42/gifts), [managerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/managerie/gifts).



> The title comes from the question I got to ask at Paleyfest. We were told if we talked about the episode, we shouldn't give away spoilers because the people watching the live stream hadn't seen the ep. But I had to ask, "Who was in the car?" The cast laughed, and Greg Plageman put his arm around Kevin Chapman, saying, "This guy!" Keven responded, "I just found that out now."
> 
> Later, I told Mamahub that I had my own ideas for who was in the car. I don't think Fusco was alone, obviously. If they don't show us, it's up to fanfic to tell, right? 
> 
> This then is my head canon.

John was so cold… he was slipping in and out of consciousness… unable to tell dreams from reality. Was he alone, bleeding out in the snow? Or was Carter here with him, understanding? Ordering him to keep fighting?

But it was too cold to fight. He was grateful for her understanding and a part of him really did love her. For a moment, he thought he had told her that for real, but now he thought maybe it was part of this dream, this fantasy or whatever it was.

She kept telling him he needed to open up, to share. He told her, here where it would still forever be secret, about Jessica, why he left her, why he was wrong for her, but it was still really locked inside him. And even though he told Carter most of it, there was still the parts he couldn’t say, couldn’t even really put into words in his mind. Carter was right, he kept everything inside.

But nobody wanted to know the bad things about him. They said they knew about them. There was Finch’s “absolutely everything” but they only knew the facts. They didn’t know the feelings. The awful truths that he was a killer, a murderer, whether it was under orders or not didn’t absolve him. He did it easily, without remorse, trying to do it so the victim didn’t suffer, but that didn’t change what it was. There was too much blood on his hands. Nobody could love him. Nobody should love him.

John himself didn’t really know how to love. He wanted someone like Jessica, like Iris, but deep down he knew that their innocence and trust would be more devastated by knowing the true evil that lay in his past. In a moment of clarity made sharp by the cloudless cold night air, that’s why he had chosen them, he realized now. He chose innocent women because deep down he knew they would be tarnished by his crimes and that he would have to let them go before he tarnished them. He would not be there in time. He would make a mistake. He would shatter them by bringing death into their lives. He was not good enough.

He had been trying so hard, for four years now, to wash the blood off his hands. He had saved people. He had made friends…

Friends who died in his presence.

Friends he didn’t save.

Friends he didn’t deserve.

Just the other day, he had been trying to teach Finch to use a gun. John had told him that he wouldn’t be around all the time. He knew it would be only a matter of time before he would die thowing himself in the line of fire to protect his closest friend.

Or that something like this would happen.

He would be caught off guard. His emotions would get the better of him and he would go out on his own and get shot. 

He was going to die here in the snow without thanking Harold again. It had been awhile since he had told him how grateful he had been. Maybe it was because of the cover identities they had had to adopt. It was hard to be Detective Riley and be Harold Finch’s friend at the same time.

There were other things he wished he had told Harold. Things so deep down he had never named them. Things he didn’t deserve to want. If only…

But as innocent as Jessica was, in some ways, Harold was even more so. He had done things he regretted, made mistakes, but in his innocence he had tried to save the world. He had hired Reese for his expertise, his skills. But they had become friends.

And Reese loved him. He knew that now, as the cold crept deeper into his veins, as the blood seeped slowly out of the hole in his side. But he no more deserved Harold Finch than he had deserved Jessica. 

So he had forced the love out of his heart and out of his eyes and lived Detective Riley’s life. He had pulled away in the last few months. Being busy made it easy, but there had been no long walks with Bear, no movies on rainy days, no dinners in the café.

It was better, easier. He could pretend to be the man Iris was interested in. Harold was confused but it was still better that way.

At least Iris would never be tainted by him anyway. She would never find out who he really was, how bad he really was. He was okay with that.

He opened the door of the car, allowing his weakening body to slid out, into the snow. He hardly even felt the cold.

He should have said good-bye to Harold though…

His face felt wet. Was it just sweat from the fever? The snow? Or were those tears that no one would ever see?

 

He must be hallucinating again. Carter had left him, but there were lights, far away, but moving. He could swear… but nobody was coming.

He was all alone, and no one was coming to save him.

********** 

“There! Somebody just fell out of the driver’s side door!” Root sat forward in the back seat, pointing, her other hand gripping Harold’s shoulder tightly. 

Harold followed her pointing finger. The headlights were just picking out a dark shape in the snow, lying next to the silver vehicle. 

“Do you think it’s him?” Harold heard how his voice broke, but he didn’t care.

Fusco stepped on the gas and they zoomed toward the shape. In seconds it came into focus. A man, dressed in black, prone in the snow. Not moving.

“Oh, my God.” Harold started to shake as he threw his car door open.

He got to John before Root, despite his limp. He dropped to his knees in the snow.

It was John. Pale and barely breathing. 

“No…” The word rushed out of him like someone had punched him in the gut. He sensed the presence of Root and Fusco standing over them. “Call an ambulance,” he breathed out. 

He heard Fusco stomping back to his car, static on the police band radio.

With shaking hands, he opened John’s coat, finding it black with blood, his white shirt ruined. How many times had he seen John this way, bloody, hurt? It was like a knife in Harold’s heart every time.

“There’s a dead guy over here,” Fusco said, still standing by the car. “Might be the one who shot our friend.”

“I should have insisted on going with him,” Harold said, as Root sank down beside him. “When he said he was following a lead. But he told me I was supposed to be preventing a gang war.” He sighed, his eyes on John’s slack feature. “And he hung up on me.”

“Fusco got through using his radio,” Root told him softly.

“I’m not sure how long it will take for an ambulance to get here.” Fusco sounded upset, nervously shifting from foot to foot. 

Harold nodded, feeling morose. He had always known one day he would be too late. 

“I wish Sameen was here,” Root said, both fury and desolation in her tone. 

 

“We could certainly use her medical expertise,” Harold acknowledged. So many deaths, so many lost chances.

Fusco crunched over to them. “There are lights on in that cabin. Maybe we should at least take him over there where it’s warmer.”

“Good idea,” Root agreed. “Come on, Harry. Let’s carry John inside.”

“Oh. Okay.” Harold got awkwardly to his feet. The knees of his pants were wet, cold. But he knew John was colder.

Root positioned herself on John’s left side, where the wound was. Harold bent to grasp his right shoulder and arm. Fusco took his feet. 

A low-pitched, heart-wrenching groan erupted from John as they moved him. 

“Oh, God!” Harold made to put John back down, fearing they would harm him more by moving him.

“We can’t stop now, Harold.” Root was always practical.

“No…” John cried out. “Don’t go!”

“We’re here, John,” Harold murmured, tightening his grip on the soaked overcoat. “We won’t leave you.”

“Carter… I’m sorry… “ 

“What’d he say?” Fusco huffed as he walked backward toward the cabin.

“I don’t know.” Harold felt a chill, one not caused by the snow.

“He said, ‘Carter, I’m sorry,’” Root reported. 

“Huh,” Fusco grated. “Must be out of his head.” 

“You think?” Root snarked back at him.

“Pl-please… “ Reese moaned again, his blood slick fingers grasping at Harold’s wrist. 

“Don’t worry, John,” Harold managed. His eyes were stinging. 

“I forgot to tell you guys,” Fusco coughed out. “This case, this guy Chase who they said killed his family? It was Carter’s case.”

“Detective Carter’s?” Harold asked, feeling numb and slow.

“Yeah. Back when she first made homicide. It was a cold case. John was lookin’ into it today. I didn’t realize until I checked the box of evidence. That’s how I figured out he musta come out here. The family owned the cabin. Carter’s notes said she came out here when she was investigating, but Chase had already left the country.” 

“I’m glad you checked, Detective,” Harold told him.

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” Fusco chuckled. 

They had made it to the cabin. There were four steps up to the porch. All of them tightened their hold on Reese and started up, Fusco still moving backwards. 

“The door is open,” Harold observed.

“That’s handy,” Root quipped.

Harold didn’t spare the breath it would have taken to tell her to shut up. He had wanted to earlier, when she was chiding him about how worried he was, how she thought “the big lug” could take care of himself. 

And he had responded that John had always maintained a certain distance. The words had been bitter on his tongue. John had always followed his own path, often disregarding orders, but it had been happening more lately. Harold had told himself they were all under a strain. He had kept his own counsel about many things too in recent weeks. 

Finally, Root had seemed to stop teasing, to take his worry seriously. When he had told her he had gone out of the bounds of the mesh network. And they had looked at each other.

If only the Machine… Harold had thought. But no, it was silent. He hadn’t even had the courage to ask Root if she could ask it… because he knew she wouldn’t. Or more likely couldn’t. And he had built the Machine to take care of everyone. Not just one person. 

He’d turned to her. “Earlier today, we decided the Machine was functioning properly…”

She had understood immediately. “But maybe She’s not.”

“Of course, if he has been the victim of foul play that wasn’t pre-meditated,” Harold had sighed. Of course, that was it.

“Didn’t you tell me that after Carter died, John tried to leave? But She put him on a plane to save a number. “

“Maybe the Machine can’t see him, wherever he is.” Harold had sighed.

“It could be Samaritan,” Root had said softly. “Or there just aren’t any cameras where he is. Either way…”

“Please, Ms. Groves, I am not going to just sit here and do nothing.” Harold had reached for his phone, dialing Detective Fusco again.

“What…?” Root had suddenly gasped.

“Ms. Groves?” He had turned to look at her, found her with her had at her ear, listening….

On the phone, Fusco picked up. “I think I have an idea where Mr. Wonderful could be,” he stated, eschewing preliminaries. 

“Okay, let’s get him over the threshold,” Fusco said, making sure his grip on John’s legs was solid.

As they moved to go through the door, John cried out again, twisting as if to get out of their hold. He ground out a wavering cry, wordless and inconsolable.

“Over there, to the right,” Root said, ignoring the commotion John was making. “The couch.”

Harold tried to help as best he could, but he couldn’t take his eyes from John’s ravaged face. Here, in the light, he looked even more pale than Harold had first thought and he realized just how much blood had soaked into his shirt and coat. 

Together, they managed to get him to the couch and put him down, a bit less gently than Harold would have preferred. 

“Man, he’s heavy,” Fusco panted. “Oh, gee, look. We’re not alone.”

“Who’s he?” Root asked. 

“That’s Chase,” Fusco supplied. “The guy that owns this place. His family was the one that was murdered.”

Harold glanced in the direction the others were staring. A young man lay sprawled on the love seat. He looked passed out. An array of various drugs was laid out on the coffee table before him. 

On the floor, there was a gun. Harold recognized it as John’s Sig Sauer.

“What could have happened here?” he wondered. 

Fusco wasted no time. He strode to Chase, pressing a hand to the young man’s throat. “He’s alive, but barely.” 

“Then it’s a good thing an ambulance is coming,” Root said dryly.

Harold returned his attention to John. He was muttering, his head rolling from side to side on the throw pillow.. 

Harold pulled out his handkerchief, passing it over John’s damp face. “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered, hoping he was telling the truth.

“Could one of you try to find something we could use to stop the bleeding?” he asked, trying to keep his voice even despite his need to shout orders at his companions.

The two of them bustled out of the room without exchanging another word.

John’s hands came up to grasp at Harold’s arm. Bloody, cold, shaking, they gripped with less strength than Harold remembered. He quickly took them in his own, ignoring the blood, willing his own warmth into them.

“Chase’s br-brother,” John managed. “Half brother… he killed the parents and… sisters. He waited all this time, to kill Chase. Made him take the pills.”

“We’ve called for help, John,” Harold told him, amazed that John was still thinking of others despite his pain and exhaustion.

“He said he wished he’d shot her, when she almost caught him here,” John went on.

“Who, John?” Harold stroked his forehead, smoothing the sweat soaked hair off his brow. How incongruous, that John should be so cold and yet still be perspiring at the same time. 

“Joss… “ He coughed, his face going bitter, angry. “If he’d shot her then… “

“You never would have met.” Harold stroked John’s check, understanding. “I’m so sorry, John.”

“Me too, Harold,” John wheezed. “I… shouldn’t be so distant.”

“What?”

“It’s what Carter told me, tonight, while we were waiting for you to come.” 

“Tonight? You spoke with Detective Carter?”

“I should talk about the things that matter, she said,” John went on. “That’s hard for me. But she said there were people that care about me, that I should hang on… “ His voice drifted away, but his eyes were clear, looking at Harold in that deep, pure way he had sometimes. With so much devotion, so much trust.

It had been so long since John had looked at him like that. With his heart in his eyes, Harold used to think when he saw that expression directed toward him. But he hadn’t seen it in a long, long time, not since they had left the library. Not since they had become Professor Whistler and Detective Riley. So many long months… Harold had told himself he had only imagined he could see John’s feelings for him in that look. John had become withdrawn, distant. And so had Harold, though on his part, the caring had still been real. But they had so little time these days, and all of it seemed borrowed.

But the expression was there now, soft and strong and sweet and true. Harold leaned over him, gripping John’s hands as tightly as he could.

“There are people who care about you, John,” he whispered. Took a breath. “I care about you.” Had he said too much? “And Detective Fusco. And even Ms. Groves. And…” 

“You, Harold?” John’s eyes were fixed on his own. “You care?” John took a breath. “Even knowing exactly everything…?”

He had about to say Iris' name. But he eagerly responded, “Yes, John. I do.”

“Harold… I… “

There were footsteps, Fusco and Root coming back into the room. And outside, the siren that had been blaring, that Harold hadn’t even noticed before, cut off. The ambulance was here. 

He leaned closer. “Don’t talk now, John. Save your strength.” 

John reached up with his left hand, fingers trembling, to touch Harold’s lips. “Okay,” he said sounding so young, so earnest. “But later, when I’m better… I have some things I want to tell you. If you don’t mind.”

“I couldn’t mind. You can tell me anything.” Harold felt his throat close, his eyes blur. 

Behind him, the paramedics were lumbering into the cabin, Root and Fusco speaking to them.

He took John’s hand, keeping it close to his lips, and kissed his fingertips tenderly. “I have things I want to tell you too,” he said, heart pounding.

And then he moved aside so the EMTs could do their work.


End file.
